


ink

by bestie



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Future Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Past and Present, Slow Build, Tattoos Up The Wazoo (but not literally thankfully), Yo Dude I Think Your Boyfriend Is A Dragon, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 09:48:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8396941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bestie/pseuds/bestie
Summary: Genji has a tattoo of a dragon.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Does Magic Exist in Overwatch?](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/237775) by BoilingHeart. 



> is it even technically an AU if it's never been confirmed nor denied that magic does or does not exist in Overwatch? **[cue x-files theme]**

As a child, he'd seen the tattoos that adorned the arms and shoulders of his father, and even some of his other relatives. When Hanzo turned eighteen, he too spent days under the careful hand of the artist who pricked each drop of ink into his arm and chest. Genji wasn't allowed near the room; his father had given him a wry smile and said the sights and sounds may scare him off from getting his own.

In truth, there was no getting scared off, even if he was _terrified_. It was expected of him. He knew why he needed the tattoo, and he knew there was no getting out of it, even if he was a flighty, reckless teenager who couldn't hold a romantic interest in someone for more than a few days, let alone handle the commitment that came with receiving his tattoo. It was _more_ than just a piece of art committed to his skin in scarring and ink for the rest of his life. It was a commitment to a legacy, a power.

He had to meditate on where the location of his tattoo needed to be, as was tradition. He was left alone in his room for what felt like weeks on end, but when he’d emerged it had only been a few hours short of a day, and the sun was just beginning to rise on the horizon. It left him with a vague image, but that was enough.

The sun rising signaled a new day. His eighteenth birthday. As he made his way to join his family in his last meal for an unknown amount of time, Hanzo walked alongside him, talking hurriedly, quietly, as he explained again what Genji would have to go through.

His father had smiled when they walked in. He looked happy, proud, but Genji did not feel the same. He felt _sick_. The food was not appetizing, and he barely ate. When he left, it was in silence as hard as the kind Hanzo frequently held, and he felt the eyes of his family on his back until he closed the door behind him and took off at a brisk jog.

* * *

“You’re late,” says a voice with a familiar drawl.

Genji pauses, looking over his shoulder. His lip pulls back in a grimace, but it is hidden by metal. “Yes,” he says to McCree, “I am. Thank you for bringing that to my attention.”

“Gabe doesn’t like people who’re late,” says McCree. He grins, tipping his hat back and revealing more of his face. It’s a habit that always has Genji’s fingers curling. “You think he’ll be happy to know you missed out on half an hour’s practice already?”

“I do not need practice.”

“What, so you're used to that new body of yours already?”

Genji falters, looks away.

The new body is different.

He cannot feel, but he still _feels_. It’s all data and perceptions, sensors that tell him what's there even if the feeling is vague and hard to understand, and he cannot get used to it. His performance has been off. Gabriel has been hounding him for weeks now on practicing and practicing, and Doctor Ziegler has been making changes each time they meet, three times a week – adjustments, re-wirings, re-fittings, everything. It all makes his head hurt even when it should not.

When he does not respond, McCree laughs. “It’s not a bad thing. You think _anyone_ would be able to cope with somethin’ so life-changin’ in only a handful of weeks?” And then Genji does not respond again, so he just rambles on, as is so common for him. “Hell, it took me months to get used to this arm of mine. Gabe’s just being a dick. That’s how he _is_. And, lucky you—”

The sound of McCree pushing off from the wall, the sharp _beep_ as the door to the training room slides shut, footsteps behind him as McCree approaches – it all sounds too loud. Maybe they’ll adjust his hearing tomorrow.

“—you get _me_ as your new sparrin’ partner.”

Genji swears under his breath in Japanese, and McCree laughs again, so relaxed compared to how tense Genji feels. His shoulders square.

“I would rather go through the pain of having my limbs replaced again,” he snaps.

“Aw, damn,” McCree all but coos. He is close, but he does not touch. This man, who Genji has seen sling an arm around Gabriel Reyes as if they were the best of friends, or enclose Doctor Ziegler in a hug just because he hasn’t seen her in a few days, does not touch him. “You got my heart all a-flutter, Genji. Keep it up and you’ll do _real_ good.”


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for mild gross / gore-y descriptions.

“You are doing good, my dear nephew,” his aunt had said, and his uncle did not speak, but merely hummed his agreement as he wiped away droplets of blood from Genji’s back.

He didn’t know what to say, what to do, what to think – so he just groaned, face buried in his arms. His aunt’s fingers (covered in the same sort of swirling, colorful art that he was receiving then) attempted to soothe him, gentle in his hair and on his arms, coaxing him to look up whenever his breathing grew too ragged.

It was a childish wish to want his mother to be the one to hold his hand and his father to be the one to imprint the ink into his skin. He was an adult now; that was the _point_ of this entire tradition. Hanzo didn’t have their parents with him. And their father, their aunt, their uncle - they didn’t have their parents, either.

They took breaks. They did not sleep; they did not eat; they meditated. But time dragged on, seemingly endless.

When his uncle pressed a hand to his back, on the skin still raw and the ink still fresh, and they both felt the energy run through it, run through _him_. Time sped up again. Genji took in a shuddering breath, feeling power burning deep in his veins and seeing light in the edges of his sight. ( _His eyes glowed_ , he'd hear his aunt say later.  _His connection is strong. It's a shame he's so flippant._ )

But it still stung.

“Please,” Genji muttered, his voice hoarse, “do not touch it any further.”

His aunt and uncle laughed.

* * *

“You’re doin’ good, Genji,” Jesse mutters. “Just breathe through it. We’re almost done.”

“We have only just _started_ ,” Genji says, struggling to catch his breath.

His fingers scrabble and curl against the dirt he’s lying on. The plating on his back, dark brown and something akin to scaled armor, was made to match the synthetic skin that weaved along his arms and legs, and to protect the real skin that remained, but that was never a guarantee. He’d been reckless, not listening to the information rolling in from his sensors that told him someone was approaching from behind, and it had been punctured. _He’d_ been punctured.

“Mac says he’s tryin’ to contact the airlift. We’ll be outta here quicker than I can get all this off you, I’m sure of it.”

It isn’t even the plating itself being removed that is the painful part. It’s what is underneath, a thin layer of – something, he never found out what, just knew that it felt slimy and cool against his ruined skin, like some sort of film – being pulled away that hurts. His skin clings to the film, and when it comes off, it peels and it _burns_ , exposing his skin to the air, as raw as the night he was found lying in the dirt, beaten and left to die.

He finds himself _wishing_ for the dark enclosure of unconsciousness to sweep him away like it did all those months ago, but it does not grant him that wish. Instead, he must lie there, listening as McCree goes on and on, murmuring encouragement and praises as he takes him apart, bit by bit.

Time passes slowly when it is filled with pain. Genji is all too familiar with this.

“Never mentioned you’ve got a tattoo,” says McCree, his voice quiet as he finally breaks free from the mantra of ‘good job, just breathe.’ Genji can feel the air, humid and hot, on his back, but it burns more at the notion of McCree's eyes on it. “Suits you. Green must be your color, huh?”

Time picks up again.

“Do not touch it,” Genji hisses through gritted teeth. “Don’t you _dare_.”

McCree does not say anything, but his fingers speak for him; they skirt around the lines of the tattoo that Genji has committed to memory as he applies a salve to his wound, a silent acknowledgment to his words.


	3. 3

Genji’s tattoo was hidden.

“Sometimes I wonder if you chose it yourself,” Hanzo muttered one day, his lip drawn back in a sneer. “It would not surprise me.”

“Oh, I most certainly did,” said Genji, and there was a flash of sharp teeth in his grin that had Hanzo’s brow furrowing. “Brother, you have caught me red-handed, knee-deep in my lies and transgressions. How shall I go on now with such _shame_?”

Hanzo’s tattoo was not hidden.

“Learn some _respect_.” The words were spat out, rough and harsh. “You are part of this family, whether you like it or not. Your tattoo is hidden, you shirk your responsibilities and skip your practices, even your _meditations_. Do you not consider what effect your actions have on—”

“Ah,” said Genji, interrupting his brother with a sharp glance. “I see what this is really about. You should be more forward next time, Hanzo. After all, you _are_ my elder, aren’t you?”

Hanzo snarled at that, the sound reverberating from deep within his chest as he bared his teeth. It was animalistic – _barbaric_ , Genji thought to himself, recalling the word he heard Hanzo use against him so often.

“If I had a choice,” Genji continued, “I would not use it on the location of my _tattoo_.”

There was never any point in arguing with Hanzo after they'd done their daily meditations. He pinched out the flame on his incense, and stood without uttering a final prayer.

* * *

The sky at this Overwatch base – he’s lost track of names, with how many he’s been stationed at already – is far different than the sky he watched in Hanamura.

Light pollution, Genji has learned from Winston, is the cause of less stars in the sky. Here on this base, there are many. In Hanamura, he did not see much.

And this night, at this base, the air is cool, with a gentle breeze stirring the leaves on the trees further below. Genji is perched on the roof, looking at the sky in peaceful silence. The top layer of his visor is off, leaving most of his face exposed. Mercy has been working on ways to soothe his skin.

The sound of footsteps breaks the silence, and then, there is a quiet _oof_ as someone sits beside him.

“Been a long year, hasn’t it?” says the person, and it doesn’t take long at all for Genji to recognize it as McCree.

“It is the middle of August,” says Genji. “Are you drunk?”

McCree chuckles, shaking his head. “No, but that’d be nice. I _meant_ that it’s been a long year since you joined up. You even remember that night? Wasn’t a good one necessarily, but at least we got you out of it.”

Genji considers his words with a furrowed brow. “I do not understand,” he finally says, after the pause in their conversation feels like it’s stretched on too long.

“Well,” says McCree, and he huffs out a heavy sigh that sounds suspiciously like a laugh disguised as he leans up against Genji, hat nudged up as his head nestles in the crook of Genji’s neck. He’s _close_. “You’re here, now. Part of Overwatch. Blackwatch, technically, but – you’re part of our family now is what I mean, whether you like it or not.” McCree’s grinning wide, leaning close enough that Genji can catch the scent of tobacco on his breath. “Ain’t gonna be that easy to get rid of us. Ain’t gonna be easy for us to get rid of you, either. Not that we’d want to, ‘course.”

Genji stares at the sky in silence. After a long few moments, McCree pulls away, sitting up straight again. He tilts his hat down a notch, and his eyes are bathed in shadow. It makes him look more serious. It doesn’t suit him.

“Gonna be me that’s hardest of all to get rid of,” McCree continues, and even though the grin has fallen, Genji can still hear it in the lilt of his voice. “I’m stubborn like that.”

“Yes,” Genji says with a small nod, “I have noticed.”

He scoots over, not entirely throwing his weight onto McCree like the southern man did to him, but leaning just close enough so that they’re pressed metal to skin. McCree jolts at the contact, snaps his head to look at Genji with widened eyes, before his expression relaxes into one of muted amusement. There’s a spark in his eyes, a crooked grin back on his lips, and Genji wants to smile too.

So he does, and McCree’s grin grows even bigger.

(“It is a good kind of stubborn,” Genji says later. They’ve been sitting like that, shoulder-to-shoulder, for long enough that Genji gave up counting the minutes. “But that does _not_ mean I encourage you to continue those stupid jokes of yours to make me laugh. There is always a limit, cowboy.”)


End file.
